Nude Man in Gym

It was when I joined the Gold’s Gym in Moscow that I saw nude men for the first time. In the changing rooms, men moved around freely wearing no clothes at all. Some shaved in front of mirrors, entirely naked. My mind, nurtured for years in the virtuous Indian soil, considered the sight obscene. I had seen nude women in foreign films and museum paintings before. That was Art. Many of the comely models were a pleasure to watch. But nude men? Nude men moving around next to you? (In the flesh, I may add).

After my hour-long exercise, I opted to sit in the changing rooms with a bath towel around my waist. I would close my eyes to feign exhaustion. If someone talked to me I would, with eyes focussed, strictly concentrate on their faces. Showers were even more shocking. There were no doors and no curtains. A row of open cabins with their occupants washing their naked bodies in view of the fellow gym members. 

I had heard of a similar treatment to the students in Moscow’s Patrice Lumumba University for Asians and Africans. But here was the most expensive gym in Moscow frequented by expatriates and rich Russians, compelling each of them to abandon their notions of privacy during the sacred ritual of a morning shower.

                    

Moscow’s Gold’s Gym is huge. It is the biggest gym I have been to. Once, while jogging on the treadmill on its first floor, I noticed the managing director of my company lifting weights on the ground floor. This was a middle-aged Canadian who headed the Russian operations of the British American Tobacco. It is one thing meeting your top boss in the comfort of the office environment, with both of us wearing well-pressed suits and elegant ties. Quite another, confronting the same man in shorts and crumpled sweatshirt.

Later that morning, when I was taking shower, a voice behind called my name. My wet body briefly turned to see if it was a mistake. The Canadian man, the top boss, stood there. Wearing no clothes, he began talking to me.

‘‘What do you think’’ the nude managing director asked, ‘‘of the idea of taking Yava Gold to duty-free?’’

These things normally happened only in my worst nightmares. I mean my facing the top company boss with no clothes on me. I did not know whether to switch the shower off. I had two choices. Be rude by showing him my behind, or be indecent by showing him my front. I chose rudeness. I awkwardly turned my head and smiled feebly.

‘‘I was saying’’ he thought I hadn’t heard the question due to the running shower, ‘‘what do you think of listing Yava Gold in duty free?’’

I thought it was a dumb idea. (Selling a local brand at the International airport was dumb). But I was not in a fit state to argue. I dreaded the thought of two naked corporate men discussing business in front of a shower, with everybody else listening to us. 

‘‘The idea has merit.’’ I said, hoping he would go away.

‘‘Yes, I thought you would support it.’’ He came uncomfortably close and began a discourse on duty-free. I quickly turned the shower off; with a swift movement stretched my arm to grab the towel; and using it as a cover faced the madman – the managing director.

‘‘Let’s discuss it’’ I said ‘‘once we are in the office.’’

‘‘This place is much quieter.’’ He said. ‘‘I think critical issues for business are best discussed on golf courses. Since Moscow does not have golf, gym is the next best place for business discussions.’’

(Fortunately for me, in a few weeks he became too busy. I saw him a couple of times in the gym, but never again in the changing room.)  

Narrating this incident ten years after it happened, I am now surprised how much I have changed since. Nature has its way to desensitise us. Habit is an antidote to shocks. In a few months after joining the Gold’s gym, I stopped closing my eyes. I think my wearing a towel around my waist was a sight weirder for the nude men. Finally, I found the courage to be like them. To move in the changing rooms with no complexes (and no towels). It is actually a liberating feeling. And very comfortable when hot and sweating. I had found nudity indecent because I was always told it was. Many years after Moscow, in my Derby gym, I saw English fathers becoming nude in presence of their children, even young daughters (who would change clothes along with their fathers). I don’t think any of these children would ever consider nudity a taboo.

Thus seasoned in Moscow, I joined the Sheraton Gym in Warsaw, after my transfer to Poland. The Sheraton Gym is the cleanest in Warsaw; a rare one offering clean laundered towels free. On the right side of reception is the gym hall. At the reception, you can get fresh albeit expensive fruit juices. On the left side are the men’s and women’s rooms. At the entrance of men’s room, you have lockers. I would hang my office clothes here before exercise. Another locker room has wooden benches in the middle. Then a nice, cosy room with reclining chairs. The room has newspapers and magazines – both Polish and American. Then the shower room, (in Poland, the shower-room has doors!), followed by sauna.

On Saturdays and Sundays, I would go to the newspaper room after exercise. The side-table always had the latest Herald Tribune (the European edition) and older New York Times and Newsweek. In this room, men (mostly nude or semi-nude) with time and sociability would chat with one another. American accent dominated the conversations. Most members were Americans, and they were the only ones who were not shy to talk or laugh loudly to pierce through an otherwise quiescent ambience.

In that room, I often saw one man who was exceedingly tall. He must be six feet four or five. He was a well-built giant without being hefty. He sported short hair on his head and face. I don’t know how he did it, but each time I saw him, the bristles on his face looked how they look three days after shaving. (How does one shave to achieve a three-day beard every day?).The muscular structure of that tall man suggested strength and power. But the first thing that caught your eye when you looked at him was the tattoos on his arms. Both arms were adorned with beautiful black designs that were fit to be part of an art gallery.  I pitied the particular placement of the tattoos. Hidden under sleeves, they would more often remain invisible. The gym goers in Sheraton were fortunate. I, for one, have never seen any tattoo more exquisite.

Despite that, I had my reservations when he began talking to me. His overall bearing and the short hair reminded me of Russian mafia. In the Moscow gym, I had seen bodyguards of the New Russians (those who change the Mercedes once its ashtray is full) train with zeal. The Polish mafia and the New Poles are much weaker than their Russian counterparts. But this tall man could well have been a bodyguard. He said his name was Przemek. (Pronounced Pshe-me-k. If you can’t pronounce p and sh together, then She-me-k. The Polish Przemek is a diminutive of the even more difficult Przemysław.).

By the time we met, my Polish was reasonably fluent. Przemek said he was surprised to hear me, an Asian, speak in Polish. Our days and timings coincided. The weekends were less crowded. On a Saturday morning, some times it was only Przemek and I in the gym. We talked about weather; we discussed Catholicism and the Polish pope, the unreliability of Polish (and in general all) women, on how bad communism was and how lucky the current Polish generation was to become part of free Europe. His bass voice matched his overall personality. From our conversations, Przemek appeared to be good-natured; though his appearance was capable of instilling fear in anyone.

The other top-end hotel in Warsaw, the Marriott, has a sports cafe – the Champions Sports bar. It has more than fifty televisions, a couple of billiard tables, a satellite dish that catches key sports channels, and Mexican and American cuisine. I usually went there to watch cricket and football. I would order a double grapefruit juice that allowed me to sit for hours.

I had gone there with Gosia, my Polish friend, to watch the world cup final between Germany and Brazil. The place was crowded, and I celebrated the Brazilian victory by eating more than I needed. When Gosia and I left our table, and were about to exit; I suddenly stopped at the sight of a large portrait. It was hanging right above my head at the entrance. Though I had come to Champions before, I had never noticed the portrait.

                                                            

‘‘What is it?’’ Asked Gosia, who saw me staring at the man in the picture.

‘‘Who is this man?’’ I asked her. ‘‘Do you know him?’’

‘‘Saleta? That is Saleta.’’

‘‘Saleta? What do you mean Saleta? Is that a Polish name?’’

My heart was beating faster.

‘‘Yes. He is the kickboxing champion.’’

‘‘Przemek is... the kickboxing champion?’’                        

‘‘Yes. Przemysław Saleta.’’

‘‘Przemek?’’ I asked again.

‘‘You talk as if he is your personal buddy.’’ Gosia did not know what was so exciting about a portrait of a kickboxing champion.

‘‘Well, not exactly.’’ I said. ‘‘But I certainly know the design of the tattoos on his arms. I can also confirm to you that arms are the only part of his body where he has tattoos.’’

I was relieved to know Przemek was neither a bodyguard nor mafia. My research revealed he had been a Kickboxing World Champion in 1993. Currently, he was the Polish and European champion.

‘‘Przemek, you never talk about your profession. About the fact that you are the kickboxing champion.’’ I said casually when we met the following week.

‘‘Everyone else talks to me only about that. Talking to you is a breath of fresh air. You never asked me for my autograph. People give me undue respect when I speak to them. That makes me awkward. You treat me as a human being, not as a kickboxing champion, and I am thankful for that.’’

‘‘I understand.’’ I said. I decided not to tell him that until my visit to the Champions bar, I had not known who he was. If I had, I would have probably given him undue respect as well.

A few days later, I was at a car rally in Warsaw. My company was the sponsor. Ten Polish winners of a competition run by our company were the key guests. They had come to Warsaw from all parts of Poland. I was standing with those guests and my colleagues. Suddenly from the VIP stand located far away, I saw a figure waving at me. I waved back when I realised it was Przemek. He came pacing with his long legs and greeted me.

‘‘What are you doing here, Ravi?’’ He asked.

‘‘We are the sponsors of this rally.’’ I answered.

We exchanged a few words.

‘‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow morning.’’ He said before going back to the VIP stand.

I noticed the Polish guests and my colleagues were all gazing at me in awe. One of the guests asked in a respectful voice how Saleta happened to know me.

‘‘Oh that!’’ I said. ‘‘We train together, you know, in the same gym.’’

After saying that, I felt everyone was watching my biceps with undue respect.

Ravi